On Observation
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: John/Sherlock. Lestrade notices things that everyone else doesn't.


First time I saw anything was the night we dragged those poor kids sopping wet and scared out of what was left of the pool. The building looked half blown off, and I couldn't even guess how these two had managed to get out just bleeding a bit. Sherlock was shaken straight up, didn't say a word and actually let someone throw a blanket around his shoulders.

It was Doctor Watson did all the talking. We searched the building and surrounding area, but we couldn't find the bloke he kept going on about. Even when he gave us a name to look into at Bart's, we didn't have high hopes of finding the bastard. We got it all from Doctor Watson, or at least what he was willing to let us know. If Sherlock hadn't got to him so soon and turned him off of helping us, I'm sure he'd have been a great help, but now he was just as stubborn a mule as that goddamn detective.

I knew he was holding something back from us, even talking so fast like he was. He didn't want anything to do with the attentions of the paramedics, and if the doctor hadn't been nearly torn in half I'd have laughed; doctors are the worst patients. I got whatever statement I could get out of him, but if this bomber Moriarty was as bad as Watson said he was, there wasn't a chance in hell we'd find him. He was probably kicking back in Monaco by now, wondering which detective to blow off the face of the planet next.

They probably didn't think I saw them. I didn't hear them, but I could sure as hell see them. Sherlock sitting all quiet like I'd never seen him, Watson crouching down to look him in the face, both of them white as ghosts. Watson asked something to the paramedic I couldn't see, and then Sherlock finally looked him in the eye. Didn't say a thing, just raised his hand to Watson's ear, kept it there. The doctor's face went all confused, but then he didn't say a thing.

Now, I was no consulting detective, but I didn't make DI for no reason. I didn't need a massive intellect to do a bit of deducing of my own.

I made the both of them go to the hospital, they weren't doing anyone any good if they died of internal bleeding on my watch. Doctor Watson insisted on riding with Sherlock. A lot of things were forged in fire, I'd been on the force long enough to see it happen all the time.

We assigned a rotating team to watch their place on Baker Street for the first two weeks after the bombing, but if everything Sherlock said about the guy was right (now that he was talking again, don't know how Doctor Watson managed that), this Moriarty chap was the kind of guy who was only caught when he wanted to be. Still, it made me feel better to know I was doing what I could, there were a lot of ways to feel useless around Sherlock Holmes.

I picked up a night of watching the first week with Donovan. She didn't say much nice about Sherlock when she didn't have to, but even she'd shut off her snark after the both of them had nearly been blown to bits.

My phone buzzed.

_Get milk if you're going to sit around all night.  
SH_

I made Donovan go out to the shop down the block, and her old muttering was back. I left her on the street and bounded up the steps at Baker Street with a pint of milk as a peace offering.

Sherlock had taken a rather nasty bit of debris to his upper leg, something he hadn't even seen until they'd taken it out at the hospital. He'd been all proud and stiff-lipped about it, but Doctor Watson had forced him to use the cane I'd seen him hobbling around on the first time Sherlock had brought him around. He didn't like it, but since it'd been Doctor Watson who'd said it, he submitted.

The doctor was the first one I saw when I let myself in the door that was always open.

"Doctor Watson," I said, nodding and handing the milk over to him.

"John," he insisted for the hundredth time, taking one look at the milk and smirking. I tried to make a note to change it. John went to the kitchen and I went to Sherlock, who had his bum leg propped up on the coffee table and looked really honestly livid.

"Keeping an eye on me?" he growled. He crossed his arms like a kid.

"The son-of-a-bitch blew up three buildings in a week and nearly turned the two of you into kibble. You think I'm gonna let this guy get another try at you?"

"He's just concerned, Sherlock," John said, bringing tea and sitting with him.

"Do you think you idiots could seriously contend with the sort of brainpower and manpower he has behind him?" Sherlock's voice was getting louder, but I'd seen him mad before. "You think an unmarked car on the corner or a pair of binoculars across the street is going to stop _Moriarty_?"

John's hand was on Sherlock's arm, and even thought he had to physically bite it back, he stopped his yelling. I'd never thought I'd see it, someone who had a collar on the world's greatest detective. I didn't know if I'd ever seen anyone tell him what to do, and I almost laughed. But then, it really hadn't been _telling _him what to do so much as a touch I was sure neither of them knew I saw. Again.

There wasn't a word that even sounded like Moriarty in the days following, and after another week of watching, I finally let Sherlock win and called off the guards. Three days after that, I needed his help again.

He limped onto the crime scene with John at his side. Some of my people still acted like those two were going to blow up or break if they looked at them too long.

"No one's looking at us," John muttered.

"No one ever looks at us."

"No," the doctor shook his head, "no, they're _always_ looking at us. Or at you."

"You would think they'd have something better to do in the middle of a crime scene."

"Look, don't push yourself."

The doctor was right only to a point. No one was looking at them, no one but me and the dead girl, and she wasn't telling anyone. John had his hand on Sherlock's heart, right over it, and didn't say a word.

Two very odd things happened next, and I wasn't sure which was odder. Sherlock smiled, and not the sort of smile when he sees a fresh corpse face down in the dirt. It was the kind a normal person made, the happy kind that actually went up into his eyes. Then he leaned down and he kissed John Watson. On the top of the head.

To be fair to the doctor, he looked pretty damn surprised about it, too.

It went on for a long time like that, them thinking no one else could see them when they thought they were being quiet about the whole thing. The investigation went on for a week and a half, and I counted no less than ten times John almost took Sherlock's hand but thought better of it, three times they leaned too close when talking, and one time I'd been sure John was gonna straight up grab him and kiss him. It was distracting, and I was more than a bit peeved. This was murder, after all, flirting really could wait, couldn't it?

I didn't think I could be the only one who'd seen it, they hadn't exactly been secret about it. Standing over the body and whispering like teenagers. Surely Donovan must've had something to say about it, she always had something to say about Sherlock. But she and Anderson and every bloody officer on my team was too thick to pay any attention. Must be something like how he felt about us all the damn time.

Just as usual, Sherlock had been his brilliant self and led us straight to the killer, a homeless woman who'd lost her practitioner's license, her husband, her money and her mind in that order, Sherlock told us as we slapped the cuffs on her. John had that little kid look on his face like Sherlock was Christmas. Sherlock wasn't modest, but he almost never waved off a compliment from his right hand man like he did then.

Then John looked almost sad. If I'd been Sherlock, I'd have been able to read every little thing in the expression, but I wasn't, so I had to guess. I wasn't an extraordinary mind, but I could see what these two were up to. Sherlock was still leaning on that cane, and John had finally bucked up the nerves to put his hand there too. They just stared each other down. No one said a thing.

It was the most frustrating thing I'd ever seen that stupid, brilliant man do.

"Oh for God's sake, just kiss him!" I burst out, loud enough, I realized, that everyone suddenly _was_ looking.

John was shocked and red and almost missed Sherlock as he followed instruction and kissed John Watson. On the mouth.

And because now, of all times, was when everyone had decided to pay any attention, Donovan gasped out loud and Anderson dropped something heavy. Someone was shouting, and it generally went down real poorly for everyone who'd been gathered around them. Not Sherlock and John, though. They looked happy for the first time since they were near blown up by a madman.

With that out of the way, maybe we could finally get some goddamn work done.

* * *

AN: I'm back! More John/Sherlock for y'all! This time I picked Lestrade to narrate to get a different perspective on the relationship. Plus I lerv Lestrade, he's a fox. I hope I got everyone right, first time writing for Lestrade. Also, I hope he doesn't come off as a creeper... :I ANYWAY, thanks so much for reading, lemme know if anything is wrong, leave some love if you want, and, as always, STAY AWESOME!


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